


Lambchops and Cigarettes

by windychimes



Category: Bastion (Video Game)
Genre: Gen, Introspection, zulf thinks too much: the fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-27
Updated: 2018-02-27
Packaged: 2019-03-24 19:13:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,074
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13817649
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/windychimes/pseuds/windychimes
Summary: Zia looks out to sky beyond them, blue for miles, nothing out there but space and a broken veil of clouds. They’re past the stormy wet season and have settled nicely into calm skies and dry winds. Zia pulls her braid over her shoulder and twists it around her fingers like she always does when she’s thinking. The wind billows their clothing and pushes out the sails. They move along easily, although towards what, Zulf doesn’t know. The Kid says he’s searching for the Motherland, but that’s not marked on map.We’ll find it, he always says, but Zulf’s not so sure.





	Lambchops and Cigarettes

**Author's Note:**

> for anon, who requested platonic zia/zulf well over 2 years ago.

It’s more the act of smoking than the cigarette that calms him, but it works all the same, and Zulf sits on the edge of the Bastion and smokes what’s left of his tobacco. It’s been several weeks since they’ve last found civilization; last time, it was a small farming town, with tobacco as its main export, and before that, a group of pastoral nomads. Zulf liked the nomads; they traded meat for song and could play a good tune on the cittern. Sometimes he wonders if they should have stayed. Being a nomad wouldn’t have been so bad, and it was relatively safe, and every night was warm and sleepy. They weren’t with the nomads for long, but Zulf remembers the nights best, the music playing into starlit skies, the taste of fresh, gamey meat, the spiced wine working its way into all his aches. A man with dark eyes and a secret smile. But the Kid wanted to keep moving, so they went on. The Kid always wanted to keep moving. So far, he hadn’t steered them wrong. Zulf would hesitate to say the Kid knew what he was doing, but he knew how to manage, and that was good enough. It was better than anyone else could do, at the very least.

Zulf chews on what’s left of his cigarette, watches wispy clouds roll by below him. Idly, he traces lines through the grooves of his cane lying in the grass next to him, something kindly carved by the Kid. His body could only heal so much, and walking was difficult. The Kid made it easier, like he made everything easier. Zulf reminisces, and someone approaches from behind; he hears footsteps in the grass, and then Zia is standing next to him. She sits down, folding her legs beneath her. Zulf holds his cigarette out to her, but she refuses with a shake of her head. Instead, she asks, “What are you thinking about?”

Zulf takes a big inhale, exhales, taps away the ash. “Lambchops and cigarettes,” he says. “Do you think we should have become nomads?”

Zia looks out to sky beyond them, blue for miles, nothing out there but space and a broken veil of clouds. They’re past the stormy wet season and have settled nicely into calm skies and dry winds. Zia pulls her braid over her shoulder and twists it around her fingers like she always does when she’s thinking. The wind billows their clothing and pushes out the sails. They move along easily, although towards what, Zulf doesn’t know. The Kid says he’s searching for the Motherland, but that’s not marked on map. _We’ll find it_ , he always says, but Zulf’s not so sure.

“…No,” Zia finally says, still fiddling with her braid. “I’m glad we didn’t stay. I think there’s something better out there.”

The wind picks up and snuffs out the last bit of Zulf’s cigarette. He grumbles and flicks the butt into the empty space below. He considers rolling another cigarette, but he’s nearly out of tonacco, and it must be conserved. He grits his teeth to quell the urge to chew. “What out there is better, though?” he asks. “We could have stayed at that last place, we could have been farmers. That wouldn’t have been so bad.”

“You just want tobacco,” Zia says. Zulf smiles only a little. “I don’t want to be a farmer, either. I want to be…”

Zia goes quiet. Zulf thinks about being a farmer. He’s not much for physical labor, but they’d make it out just fine. The people there were hearty and kind, and they spoke a curious and thought dead dialect of Cael, something he would have liked to study, if he had the time. They had a taste for drink and smoke and it was a little indulgent but it wasn’t so bad. Zulf could get used to a little indulgence. But the Kid wanted to move again, so they moved again. Farming would have suited the Kid, but less so the rest of them.

“…I want to be a princess,” Zia finally says. “We’ll keep going until Kid finds me a kingdom. I want a pony, too.” She looks very serious, and for a moment Zulf wonders about her sincerity, and then she’s laughing. Zulf laughs with her and pats her on the head.

“Very well, Princess Zia. Ask Kid, and he’ll do it.” And the Kid would, somehow or another, if she asked. The Kid had made it clear, more through action than word, that he would do anything Zia asked. He spent a week looking for after she’d run away; finding a kingdom wouldn’t seem too big for him. He’d make her a princess, no matter what the cost. He would move mountains for her.

(Sometimes Zulf wonders if the Kid would move mountains for him, too, but that was a thought that makes his teeth ache so he leaves it for a different time.)

Zulf shakes his head. Now’s not the time for that. “But what do you _really_ want to be?” he asks. “Where do you want to be?”

They’d been traveling for a few years and explored many places and met many people, but nothing had managed to please everyone. Zulf still remembers when they first took off. Mostly; he was barely there when the Kid brought him back to the Bastion. It was something divine that kept him alive, he’s sure, although that’s not a theory he’s shared with anyone else. Not everyone is so understanding of his connection to the Gods. The Kid was what else kept him alive, but he supposes that’s what the Kid did for everyone. He supposes that’s what the Kid still does with everyone. But, he remembers being in a tent, warm and dark and nearly dead, and the feeling of the Bastion _moving_ , and wondering if he had actually died. And hoping, back then, and hoping for a long while after that, and now mostly not hoping but sometimes, when things are too quiet and he’s staring up into darkness of his tent and he thinks _Maybe_ —

“You’re thinking too much again.”

Zulf shifts his attention from the expanse in front of him to Zia. She puts her hand over his own. The warmth is grounding, and _Maybe—_ recedes from his mind. “…Yes, of course,” he says. This is one of the many reasons why she’s his favorite. “What were we talking about?”

“About where I wanted to live,” she answers. “And what I wanted to do. I don’t know. Sometimes I think, why don’t we just stay on the Bastion? We’ve lived here long enough, anyway. What’s so bad about it?”

Words worth considering. The Bastion has given them many things, more than it should be capable of; it did curious things, like sprout a garden, and never seemed to run out of water. Rucks said none of it should be possible, but the Bastion has always been one for surprises. It isn’t a bad place to live by any means, and Zulf enjoys it for what it is, but the Bastion has its limitations, too.

“Don’t you want to be with other people?” he asks. “We could have a community outside the four of us.”

Zia shrugs. “What’s wrong with just the four of us? I like it that way.” She screws her mouth up in the way that means she’s measuring her next words. “…It’s more friends than I had before.”

She gives it more weight than it deserves, Zulf thinks, but he doesn’t voice that. “You could have even _more_ friends,” he points out. “Wouldn’t that be fun? There’d be more things to do, too.”

“I guess,” she says. “But I like this. It’s nice. I don’t have to _be_ anything here, either.”

The roles on the Bastion are mutable, and they all take different shifts cooking and cleaning and steering their flying island. Everyone shares jobs and responsibilities. You aren’t anything specific on the Bastion; you just… are.

“Sometimes it’s nice to be something,” Zulf says. It’s very nice to be something, and have a schedule, and have everything in a nice, rigid little form, everything put into perfect boxes. Sometimes Zulf wonders if he’ll ever get to do anything _normal_ again. Something mundane, like going to the post office, or the market. Having a job. Running errands. It all seemed so troublesome, back before the Calamity. Of all the things he thought he’d miss, everyday minutiae was not one of them.

“Well, I don’t want to be _something_ , I want to be me,” Zia huffs, in a way that puts an end to that line of questioning. There was a stubborn streak within Zia, something cultivated from years of being given both everything she wanted and nothing she needed, and it was equal parts admirable and infuriating. It made it so Zia never gave up no matter what the adversity, but also made it so no amount of pleading, cajoling, or threatening to get her to do something she didn’t want to do. More than once the Kid had to throw Zia over his shoulder and carry her over to the timeout corner they’d set up on the Bastion.

Zia inhales through her mouth, exhales through her nose, pinches her braid. She calms. “What about you?” she asks.

This is something Zulf has considered every time they’ve landed somewhere new. Every new civilization they encounter, every new land they explore, shapes and refines what he wants, sands it down until it’s smooth. “Somewhere warm, and near water,” Zulf says.

He thinks of a little island they found, once, long ago, shortly after they first set sail. There was little on it, and nothing from which to get supplies. But there had been a beach, and they spent all day in the sun, running and sleeping and splashing in the water. Even Rucks had joined in. Zia and Zulf glowed pink for days afterwards and the dried and dead skin itched and peeled, but the Kid was left more bronzy than before. It had taken forever to wash the salt out of his hair and the sand out from beneath his nails. That had been the first time he laughed since the Calamity. Zulf thinks of that space when his own becomes too dark and his brain is going _Maybe_ — again, and it helps to settle the strange beating of his heart.

“And what would you be?” Zia asks.

“A diplomat,” he answers. “That is what I’ve been doing. I might as well keep doing it.”

Every new group of people they’ve met, Zulf has been the one to do introductions and keep the peace. More than once a language barrier has resulted in a misunderstanding, mostly by the Kid, and Zulf has been the one to smooth things over. One doesn’t need to know a language to know what angry yelling means. He’s learned how to get by on gestures and pointing and a jovial smile. If— _when_ they meet anyone else, Zulf will be the one to handle the relations. His past life gave him some skills, and he’d be remiss not to use them. It led him well enough before the Calamity. It’s how he gained his love, after after all.

But his past need not be dwelt on, not now. “Why did you come over here?” Zulf asks, switching to the present, to the woman beside him and not the one behind. “Surely not for this conversation.”

“Oh! Right. I came to ask for your help with the laundry.” Zia hops up and holds out her hand out to Zulf. “Will you help me?”

“I helped you with laundry last week,” Zulf says, but still takes her offered hand to help him up, and steadies himself with his cane. “Will you help me with dinner if I do?”

“Maybe,” Zia says in a way that definitely means no.

Zulf sighs. How like her. She links her arm with his and leads him over to the laundry. Perhaps Zia has the right idea; maybe staying on the Bastion isn’t so bad. Maybe they’ll never find anywhere good enough, and live out their lives on the Bastion. Maybe the Motherland will be somewhere warm and quiet and flowing with water. There’s no certainty in the future these days, but Zulf can be certain in Zia, in the Kid, and that’s good enough.


End file.
